Fishbowl (28 page)

“I kind of figured this would happen,” Faye says. “I’m just leaving the building, and it’s raining paper out here. It’s beautiful.” She spins around once again to take in the entire scene. The last few pages are just settling. A few people look up to see if they can find the source of it, their hands curved over their brows to shield against the bright sky.

“Faye,” Connor says, “I love Katie. She knows about you now and she hates me.”

“Oh. That’s a tough spot to be in,” Faye says.

She does feel for the guy, and she thinks how, someday, when she’s ready, she would like someone to feel that way about her. Not anytime soon, she thinks, but someday, she’d like someone to love her and break up with all his other girlfriends for her.

“I’m okay with it,” Faye says. She knows she’ll find other Connors in her life, but at the same time, she would like to keep this one on her list. He’s such a great toy. “I hope she gives you a second chance. You’re not all that bad. Don’t delete my number, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I have to,” Connor says.

He sounds disappointed, she thinks, or is it ashamed?

“You never know when you’ll need it,” she teases. “Hey, Connor?”

“Yeah.”

“If you find my panties, could you let me know? I think I left them—”

Faye jumps back a step when some dark mass narrowly misses her head and lands on the sidewalk in front of her. She looks up to see if any other surprises are falling from the sky before taking a step closer. It’s a crumpled pile of purple fabric. She bends over and picks it up: her panties.

“Hello?” Connor’s voice comes through the phone.

“Yeah, sorry. Don’t worry about it. I just found my panties,” she says. “Keep my number, okay? Just in case.”

“I won’t,” he says. “Bye, Faye.”

“Bye, Connor,” she says.

Faye puts her phone in her pocket and screws the lid on her water bottle. She looks up at the building again, contemplating how her panties became part of the paper rain, and then shrugs.

As she turns, she’s nearly bowled over by a dumpy little man in filthy clothes. He brushes by her, his hard hat falling to the pavement with a clatter as he twists to avoid knocking her over. Its inertia carries it down the sidewalk, but he doesn’t stop.

“Watch it, fucker,” Faye calls after him.

The man fumbles with his keys, and she thinks he says something like “Sorry, girlfriend’s fuck bubble popping” as he bolts into the lobby and the door closes behind him. She can’t be sure though because she recognizes all the words but not the order they arrived in.

Faye stuffs her panties in her back pocket, leaving them hanging out a bit, like a little purple flag for anyone who is paying attention. Then, with her water bottle swinging from one hand, she starts off along Roxy.

A few blocks up, she nods and winks at the security guard in front of a construction site. She thinks he’s cute. He smiles back and introduces himself as Ahmed when she stops to ask him the time.

49

In Which Jimenez Finds That, Like Choosing to Live with a Leaky Sink, Loneliness Is a Choice

Jimenez sits cross-legged on the kitchen floor. He rests the wrench in his lap and contemplates the man in the dress standing in front of him. It’s a stunning outfit, he has to admit. It fits his bulk beautifully. However, it does take Jimenez a little time to reconcile the finery with the manliness underneath. When he does, he decides this is a fine-looking man in a fine-looking gown. And, to top it off, the shoes are perfect. Jimenez wouldn’t have thought a strappy number like that would fit the man’s girth, but then he has never really had cause to contemplate how a woman’s clothes might fit a man, let alone the best way to accessorize such a look. But now that he sees it all together, it works.

“My name’s Jimenez,” he says, “and there’s nothing wrong that I can see under the sink.” He gestures with a light wave to the open cabinet.

“My name’s Garth,” the man in the dress says, “and I’m sure it was leaky.”

“Nope,” Jimenez says. “Just the faucet was a bit leaky.”

Garth doesn’t say anything else, so Jimenez considers Garth for a moment longer. He’s ruggedly attractive with an amazing set of ankles, and Jimenez can’t take his eyes from the dress.

“Is it carmine?” Jimenez asks, gesturing at the dress. “The color?”

Garth blushes and nods. “It is, thank you,” he says and touches the dress.

Jimenez nods, takes the wrench from his lap, and huffs as he clambers to his feet. He bends to scoop the flashlight from the floor and then holsters it in his belt. He hikes the tool belt up from where it slipped from his hips.

“I used your glass and a bit of vinegar,” he says, retrieving it from the counter. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“It was just some calcium buildup on the washer. It happens here over time.” Jimenez fishes the rubber loop out of the vinegar and rubs it between his fingers. The last few crusty flakes of calcium come off. Then the rubber is smooth and slick. “It’s because of the hard water.”

“Fascinating,” Garth says and leans on the counter. He watches with interest.

“Yep,” Jimenez says. “It’s a simple fix, easier than the plumber’s. And doesn’t cost as much.”

Jimenez busies himself reassembling the faucet, and Garth watches intently. Once Jimenez is done, the faucet is quiet. Not a drop breaches the seal.

“See,” Jimenez says. “All better.”

He holsters the wrench.

“I wanted to thank you,” Garth says.

“
De nada
,” Jimenez replies. “It’s nothing really.”

“Not just for that, but I’ve noticed how hard you work around here. To keep things running in the building. It must be a lot of work, all the upkeep.”

“Just don’t try the elevator,” Jimenez says and smiles to himself. He’s flattered though. It’s the first time a resident has thanked him, or even seemed to notice him for that matter. Marty has on occasion, but it’s partly his obligation as an employer, Jimenez thinks. At Christmas, Marty always gets him something extra, like a gift certificate for a restaurant or tickets to a movie.

Jimenez looks at Garth again. He seems a bit uncomfortable and stands awkwardly, one arm on the counter and the other flat on his hip, like he doesn’t really know how to present himself. Jimenez thinks it’s endearing—obviously Garth’s out of his element at the moment. His blush has stayed, his ears are red, and his cheeks still carry a uniform flush that disappears under his beard. That blush is probably also fed by the silence that descends between them as Jimenez looks him over.

“Your dress is pretty,” Jimenez says. “It looks really good on you.”

“Thank you,” Garth says with a quick, choking laugh. His voice cracks with emotion. “Thank you so much.”

“You get it at a store?”

“No, I had it specially made,” Garth replies. He looks down at it. “I ordered it. I’ve got a few of them.”

“Oh,” Jimenez says and then after a brief pause, “I’m really not sure what to say here now.”

“That’s okay. I don’t either,” Garth says. “It’s nice to talk though.”

“It is.”

“Would you like a drink of something?” Garth asks. “Can you stay and talk a bit more, or do you have other things to do?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Jimenez says. “A glass of water would be good.”

“Water, I can do,” Garth says. “How about we move to the living room and chat for a little while? It’s more comfortable there.”

“That would be nice.”

Garth and Jimenez sidle awkwardly past one another. Jimenez goes into the living room and contemplates the couch and the armchair. There’s a coffee table in between the two. He decides on the couch. He unhooks his tool belt and rests it on the floor beside him as he listens to the cupboard door thudding closed, followed by the tap running. Jimenez smiles at the copy of Dee-Dee Drake’s
Love’s Secret Sniper
resting on the coffee table.

Shortly, Garth appears from around the corner, a glass in each hand. He stops when he sees Jimenez on the couch. He seems to make the same appraisal of the seating, the formality of the chair or the intimacy of the couch. He opts for the couch as well, the farthest edge of it.

“Thank you,” Jimenez says, receiving the glass. “I’m really thirsty.”

They both sit and drink their glasses empty, both in a bid to buy time to think of something to say.

Jimenez finishes first and takes a deep breath. “That’s good.”

“Thanks,” Garth says.

Jimenez leans forward and puts the glass on the coffee table.

“You like the book?” he asks, picking it up and flipping it over in his hand.

“I just started it,” Garth says. “So far it’s pretty good.”

“Dee-Dee Drake is one of my favorite authors,” Jimenez says. He scans the back cover before returning it to the coffee table. He glances outside, his eyes as uncertain as his feelings. He is intrigued by Garth but is uncomfortable outside his realm of experience. “It’s a lovely view. I like it better than mine. I’m down on the third floor. I look at the alley. And the Dumpster.”

“It’s why I took the place,” Garth says, admiring the view over Jimenez’s shoulder. He leans back into the couch and crosses one knee over the other. He rests his arm along the length of the backrest. “I like how it reminds me that there is a whole city full of people out there. So when I’m alone, I don’t really feel alone.”

Jimenez examines Garth for a moment.

“I know what you mean,” he says. “Sometimes I forget that too. I don’t really know anyone here.”

“You know me now,” Garth says.

“I do. Not well yet, but I think you’re nice.” There’s another silence, and Jimenez uses the time to work through the words he wants to say in his head.

“I have to ask you,” he says and puts his hand on Garth’s. “Don’t be mad at me asking.”

Garth laughs, his heart pounding, sparked by the simple touch. “I can’t promise that without knowing the question, but I can promise that I’ll do my best not to get mad.”

“Why do you dress in a gown? It’s beautiful, but I don’t understand. Do you want to be a woman?”

Garth laughs again, and Jimenez smiles, uncertain and a bit embarrassed by his question.

“Whew,” Garth says. “I thought you would ask a hard question.” He pauses. “As a kid, I used to love the old song-and-dance movies. Debbie Reynolds. Irene Castle. Rita Hayworth. Lupe V
é
lez. There’s nothing I could think of that was more beautiful in the world than those ladies. Then, as I grew up, I started seeing that in women everywhere. All of them so graceful and strong. I don’t want to be a woman—I’m happy as I am. I really admire that beauty though. I guess that’s why I do it.”

Jimenez watches Garth while he talks. With each word, he grows more calm and confident. He understands what Garth is saying and sees it in him.

Jimenez thinks, It’s a shame that the idea of beauty has all become so sexualized and twisted about. That subtle, graceful strength rarely exists anymore, and in its place the booty-shaking, skin-exposing perversion has become the base currency of admiration.

Garth continues, “I can’t be that beauty, but I can admire it.” Garth looks Jimenez in the eye. “Tell me, is there nothing that’s a part of you that you wish you could act on?”

Jimenez lets out a long sigh and contemplates the view. He speaks just when Garth is sure he wouldn’t.

“I love Lupe V
é
lez too,” Jimenez says. “I dance. I dance to those old movies, but I only do it in my apartment. Not out in front of anybody.” He motions with sweeping hands down the length of his body. “I’m no Fred Astaire, but I do love to move.”

“Would you dance for me?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

Now it’s Jimenez who becomes flushed. He has never danced for anyone before, only in an empty apartment or in a dark and crowded room. His pulse races, and his first instinct is to excuse himself and retreat to his apartment.

“Sure you can,” Garth says. “You’ve seen me. Now show me you.”

Jimenez looks out the window at the city again. He knows people are out there, but he can’t see them. He doesn’t know any of them. That is the difference.

“There’s no music.”

“I heard you whistling when you came in. You could whistle a song to dance to.”

Jimenez knows, if he flees, nothing will change; his microwave dinners and his lonely apartment over the Dumpster are all that await him. He won’t get to know Garth. Garth will just become any person behind any window in any building out there, and if Jimenez perishes in an elevator fire, there will still be no one to write his obituary.

Without a word, Jimenez stands. He pulls the coffee table closer to the couch to make more room. Garth helps him move it, and then he slides to the center of the couch.

Jimenez walks around the table and positions himself in the center of the living room.

50

In Which the Glimmer of True Love Is Revealed to Garth and Happiness Spreads in His Belly Like a Gulp of Hot Cocoa

Garth is giddy with the anticipation of Jimenez dancing for him. Excitement burbles in him, and it takes a conscious effort to remain composed.

It’s obvious Jimenez is nervous by the way he flutters his fingers at his sides and intermittently wipes his palms on his pants. He fusses a bit more about the room, moving things out of the way, sliding the floor lamp back to the wall. He paces the periphery of the room once, as if measuring the space, and, finding it adequate, arrives back in the center of the floor. All the while, he mumbles to himself, murmurations of which Garth catches only snippets.

“This’ll look silly … There’s not enough room … What am I doing?” And the like.

Finally, Jimenez stops pacing and shaking out his arms. The rug has been rolled up along the wall, exposing the old honey-colored parquet floor beneath it. The coffee table is tucked up so close to the couch that Garth has to sit sidelong to the room because there’s barely enough space to put his legs and remain in a dignified position.

Jimenez takes a deep breath and exhales it quickly. His shoulders rise to his ears and fall again, and then he’s completely still.